


It's The Thought That Counts

by indefensibleselfindulgence



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Typical Weirdness, Gen, Gift Giving, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Violence, POV Multiple, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 08:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17076461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefensibleselfindulgence/pseuds/indefensibleselfindulgence
Summary: The Archivist asks his friends to help with Martin's Christmas present.Written for the Holiday Cheer Event





	It's The Thought That Counts

**Author's Note:**

> happy almost last week of december guys
> 
> not beta'd

Mike doesn't know what he expected but it sure as fuck wasn't the Archivist with a shovel.  
  
The man is fairly slight, all things considered, but he keeps digging until Mike is more or less in the open- free- finally fucking free finally fin _ally finally finally_ \- and he hauls Mike out of the prison and to the root of a tree.  
  
“You're not dead.” He says.  
  
Mike vomits the dirt that the earth packed into his mouth for an answer.  
  
“That's good.” He says, and Mike makes to touch him, to fling him up miles and miles in the air- fuck it- why not all the way into orbit, but the Archivist takes one step away, and he falls face first into the grass. He's never had vertigo that bad in his life. He's never given anyone vertigo that bad in his life. “Your house isn't far.”  
  
When he offers Mike a hand, Mike takes it, and despite how badly he wants too, the Archivist remains on the ground.  
  
He feels better after a shower.  
  
After getting all of the filth, the roots and the bugs and the dirt off of him and out of him, he feels better.  
  
He still can't stand on his own- his head spins like a top and no matter how hard he tries he can't keep air down. Of all the quiet indignities, the Archivist is fairly respectful, helping him stay upright. He looks horrifically bored by the entire affair, but he helps, supporting Mike's weight while he moves around his bathroom.  
  
By the time he feels actually clean he's down a full bottle of soap and a full bottle of shampoo and probably a quarter of his spray deodorant, but he feels _clean_ and less like there's the weight of the world threatening to cave his bones in.  
  
While he sits on his bed and dries off, the Archivist shuffles around in his house and comes back with a tray of tea.  
  
How sweet of him.  
  
“Feeling better?” The Archivist asks just as the first rumble of thunder pulls in over his roof.  
  
There it is.  
  
Finally.  
  
He's missed it beyond words.  
  
The Archivist opens the window for him, and Mike drinks his tea.  
  
“Quite.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“What do you want.” It's barely a question. Mike can feel the static in the air already- wind whipping at the curtains. Even if his body hasn't adjusted to the forces of gravity, he can relish in a good unending storm. He's sure he's going to start reeking of ozone any minute.  
  
“A favor.”  
  
“You put me in the ground.” He hisses. The Archivist looks unamused. He looks different. Feels really different from the man who was shaking in his boots and asking all the wrong questions. “How long ago?”  
  
“Over a year now.”  
  
The thunder gets louder and longer, and it's so close. He can hear the first drops of rain on the windowsill.  
  
“And you want a favor?”  
  
“You can't stand yet.” The Archivist says. “And everyone thinks you're dead.”  
  
“You think your boss hasn't noticed?” He's about ready to start laughing when he hears something that's not the storm- that isn't the house setting either. Something that makes his blood run cold- colder then even the dirt does. “What-”  
  
“Elias is in jail.” The Archivist uncrosses his legs and gets up to stretch. “And even if he's trying to watch, I found ways to keep him uh- let's call it- distracted."  
  
The sense of agonizing wrongness floods him and his scar burns so strongly his fingers go numb. All of him goes numb. Locks up.  
  
“Keep it away from me-”  
  
“Trust me. It's not interested in you.” The Archivist shrugs. “Can we go back to my favor?”  
  
The storm rages outside, and there's so little comfort in it now.

  
…

  
  
Agonizing existence.  
  
She feels like a piece of furniture, tossed aside and unwanted. She supposes she is now, trapped, immobile, barely capable of moving a finger really. She thinks her legs must have popped off somewhere and any of the muscles she shoved into the plastic was probably spread across the floor.  
  
“Seriously?” Nikola's not ears twitch to attention. “Isn't this traumatizing for you?”  
  
“Probably.” That's a voice she recognizes anywhere. “Are you going to help or not?”  
  
“...Yeah okay.”  
  
The rubble she's trapped under weighs at least a tonne so when something picks it up and hefts it into another pile, she concerned. The Archivist and a Hunter stand over her and if she had anything to swallow with she would.  
  
“Can you talk?”  
  
“What- that's it?” The Hunter pushes her hair out of her face and shifts her weight. “Thought it would have more skin.”  
  
“She used to.”  
  
Nikola can't talk- obviously. Doesn't have the parts for it but she thinks there might still be a bit of muscle in the neck. The plastic scraps against the neck joint but she can shake her head and that's something. That's a victory.  
  
“Good.”  
  
The Archivist doesn't sound like the Archivist anymore.  
  
“Is that all you wanted me to do?”  
  
“You can do whatever you want Daisy.”  
  
The Archivist leans down and picks Nikola's body up, nails clacking against the chipping paint. She wants to ask what he wants, what the point of this could possibly be, but then-  no vocal cords.  
  
“Call me if you need anything.” Nikola hears over her shoulder.  
  
“Of course.” The Archivist hauls her along until they got to a public street and he pulls out his phone. “You're going to do me a favor.” He says. She shakes her head again- after all, he killed her- killed their ascension- and he expects her to do anything for him? Really? The nerve-  
  
“Lyft for uh- Simms?”  
  
The Archivist gets into the car and puts a hand over where Nikola's face would be.  
  
If she still had one.  
  
“It's the least you can do after killing my assistant. ” He pats her not face again, fingers slipping past the head and into the gap for the joint. It's an exceptionally unpleasant sensation- having someone's fingers rip out muscle and tendons from your body. She's left with no movement available, no expression, no- no anything anymore. “How do we feel about the favor now?”  
  
This is maybe the first time in her long life that she's ever felt fear before.  
  
She's sure some people would agree that it's about time.

  
...

  
Peter Lukas is in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean when Elias gets released out of jail, and maybe that's his first mistake.  
  
When Peter Lukas comes back to the Institute to greet Elias and congratulate him with some playful ribbing and a glass of imported scotch, Elias isn't the one sitting behind his desk.  
  
It looks like Elias and smells like Elias and sounds like Elias.  
  
But it isn't Elias. Jon looks too happy for it to be Elias. And there's something distinctly unpleasant about a happy Archivist.  
  
The thing moves like Elias and talks like Elias and Sees like Elias but the smile on the Archivist's face makes him- uncomfortable.  
  
Jon waltzes into Elias's office like he's the one in charge and Elias smiles and laughs at all of his jokes, legs crossed over each other, fingers playfully touching Jon's arm.  
  
Whatever.  
  
That's a him problem. That's a firm and solid Elias Bouchard type of problem.  
  
He's not scared, obviously not, but whatever this thing is, so buddy buddy with an Archivist, Peter doesn't want anything to do with that.  
  
So he gets on his ship and leaves.  
  
The sea is smooth, still and the skies are blue, peaceful. He gets all the way out to the Arctic before the winds start. The winds are vicious and fast and dangerous beyond measure. His usual skeleton crew isn't going to be able to do anything. The waves hit fifty feat easy, and that's funny, he thinks, because that's not what the forecast told him. And this isn't seasonally possible.  
  
And the Vast avatar is supposed to be in the ground, dead.  
  
Bit confusing why the man with the Lichtenberg scar stands on the deck and smiles up at him.  
  
He even has the gall to wave before the ship capsizes.

  
…

  
“Merry Christmas Martin.” Jon pushes a mug with a ceramic spider at the bottom of it that he bought for five pounds at the second-hand place. “It's not much but-”  
  
Martin hugs him tightly, arms wrapped around his waist hard enough that it knocks the air out of him.  
  
“You didn't have to.” Martin twists the thing around in his hands afterward. “I kind of- forgot to get you- I mean there was a lot- a lot going on.”  
  
“It's alright.” He gives Martin's hand an awkward pat. “I'm sure you would have.”  
  
“Yeah, of course, I would Jon. Are you coming in tomorrow- Or- New Years. I'll give it to you on New Years. That's fine right?”  
  
“You don't have to get me anything.”  
  
“But it's fine right- hypothetically-” Jon gives him a small smile.  
  
“Yeah. Obviously.”  
  
Martin beams at him and Jon thinks all of the effort might have been worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always encouraged and very very very appreciated
> 
> talk[ to me here](http://iamalivenow.tumblr.com/)


End file.
